


Triste est

by emmadelosnardos



Category: FORD Ford Madox - Works, Parade's End - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos/pseuds/emmadelosnardos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Valentine,’ he whispered, his mouth now close to her ears. She was warm, too warm. She had not known it would be like this, the hurry of the moment, the cruelty of wanting him closer…And if her mother should stir!</p><p>But it was her turn now. She would not falter. She spoke:</p><p>‘You said this was untidy. You said we were not the type to be—private.’</p><p>He stopped kissing her neck and laid his face on her breast. He said:</p><p>‘A decent fellow doesn’t—’ But she had surrendered to him already.</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>Missing scene from the ending of <i>Some Do Not...</i> (book, not TV). What if Christopher and Valentine <i>were</i> the kind who did?</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Triste est

**Author's Note:**

> When I heard that there was an alternate ending to _Some Do Not..._ , the first book of Ford Madox Ford's _PARADE'S END_ tetralogy, I rushed to find the Carcanet edition with the reconstructed ending. I wondered if Valentine and Christopher had become 'those who did' on that last night before he was sent to battle again. To my disappointment, the critical edition only revealed the scene between Sylvia and Christopher later that night, when he has returned after seeing Valentine and her brother safely to home, and faces Sylvia's accusations that he has taken Valentine as his lover. (This scene is also recounted in _No More Parades_ , Part I, iii.) Christopher has had no such luck, of course, and thus the dreadful irony: though Valentine had agreed to be his mistress that night, they had had no opportunity to consummate their love. 
> 
> My story remains faithful to the original storyline, where Christopher and Valentine _do not_ that night (according to a rather strict definition of sex), but also adds an interesting twist: what if they had been somewhat closer to becoming lovers than we are told in the original novels? And how did Valentine feel about _not_ being left with a war baby, or indeed with anything else to remember Chrissie by, if he were to die?
> 
> I have inserted my scene into the final paragraphs of _Some Do Not..._ (Carcanet Edition, pp. 349-350). The original text opens and closes my fic in bold type.
> 
> Other original text from the 2010 Carcanet critical edition is printed in bold type. Numbers indicate footnotes.
> 
> I do not own the characters or the situations; these, I am afraid, belong to FMF and his estate. And as I tend to do, I've gone all erotic on them. I think Ford would forgive me; this book is absolutely dripping with suppressed desire.

**“But by God,” he said to himself fiercely, when his mind came back again to the girl in front of him, “this isn’t going to be another backstairs exit…. I must tell her…. I’m damned if I don’t make an effort….”**

**She had her handkerchief to her face.**

**“I’m always crying,” she said…. “A little bubbling spring that can be trusted to keep on….”**

**She was looking at him.**

**He didn’t know how long he had been silent, he didn’t know where he had been; intolerable waves urged him towards her. (1)**

**_________________________**

 

Her mother was in the large bedroom above, asleep for hours; her brother, snoring, drunk, in his own bed. She had arranged the cushions on the couch, in case he came home with her. Well, he _had_ come home with her. And what a small room it was, taller than it was wide, tucked away so far from her mother’s room.

She led him there, after they carried her brother to his bed. 

‘The cushions—’ She babbled. Oh, she _would_ say the silliest things!

‘ **You were, from the very beginning** —’ he began, shutting the door behind him. **(2)**

And then he was upon her, pushing her towards the couch. Tietjens – Christopher! – she might say his name now. The room was cold; he was warm, a solid mass against her. She felt as if she were water, pulsing in waves against him. No, not water: ice, grey ice, dripping at last...And what need did God have of her virtue, her deeds, when she might be among those who stand and wait? Well, now was not the time to wait. She had decided that, at least.

‘Christopher—’ He was kissing her now, his mouth firm against her lips. ‘Christopher,’ she began again. She would tell him what she had told him earlier, beside the fountain. She could not cut it from her memory. He had asked her to be his mistress, and she had consented.

‘Valentine,’ he whispered, his mouth now close to her ears. She was warm, _too_ warm. She had not known it would be like this, the hurry of the moment, the cruelty of wanting him closer…And if her mother should stir!

But it was her turn now. She would not falter. She spoke:

‘You said this was _untidy._ You said we were not the type to be— _private._ ’ **(3)**

He stopped kissing her neck and laid his face on her breast. He said:

‘A decent fellow doesn’t—’ But she had surrendered to him already. She was not so very tired, could not imagine sleeping that night, now that... And she had let him pay for the cab, so she had only walked six miles in all. Six miles, when she would walk a hundred!

‘Edith Ethel—’ she said.

‘But I thought – tomorrow I go out…and then we may never again…’

‘A decent fellow doesn’t _what_?’ she asked. He pushed her down against the couch; she heard the cushions hit the floor. Was it for nothing, then, that she had arranged them?-- if he preferred her this way instead, flat against the seat. She knew, without the cushions, that she was not going to sleep.

Christopher blurted out, above her:

‘A war baby!’

She had not thought that he would be so heavy. Or rather, she had thought that he would be a man, like men all were: tall and strong and _masculine._ But she had not known what that was, truly, until he was lying upon her like this. And he had said that it was untidy…When he had yet to touch a single button or tie of hers! So she must do it herself, then. She reached down, reached for her foot.

Her took her boot instead, his fingers clumsy in the dark. Still, he managed well enough. She wished that she had another frock, another pair of stockings. What was it that she had said to Edith Ethel? That she had a Jacob’s ladder in her stockings, and it wasn’t the kind that one could knock down. She would never accompany Edith Ethel to the station again, would never share in the easy confidences that they had enjoyed. And Tietjens had been such a friend to Macmaster! And to Mother! But she had her man. She _would_ have her man, even if Mrs Duchemin had had him first!

Edith Ethel had called him an oaf. But would she have called Christopher an oaf, if she had seen this? He was not so very oafish, as he might have been. He moved slowly, like an ox—a bull! Valentine could not hold back any longer. He had one boot off, the other half-loosened. But she would not go to him, either, not until she knew…

‘Edith Ethel asked me how to get rid of a baby!’ she said hastily. ‘You wouldn’t know—anything—would you? About that?’ Her head lay against the coverlet, her body strangely horizontal, without the cushions.

Just one word, and she would hug her arms to herself and never let him near…She would continue as she was, fit and chaste and godly. And yet…and yet! Her small body fairly hummed. It was spring. **She waited for him to speak the word, or look the look that should unite them. (4)**

‘Why would she ask you such a thing?’ he asked sharply, harshly. So he thought that she, Valentine, would know such things! Was no one to believe her?

‘She said—’ Valentine gasped.

‘What would I know about that?’ Then, ‘Oh, God. You mean—the article about the war babies—was that…?’ He waited.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘I only—I was a servant, once. In Ealing. You must have known that, though we never mentioned it. Before—before—’ He let her boot drop. ‘You must believe me,’ she insisted. ‘She came to me asking how to get rid of—I thought it was yours—yours!’

‘God, no!’ he said.

He had confessed, then, and she was alone. She had taken his response for surprise, surprise that she had found him out.

But still, she _would_ have her war baby, if only he would give it to her. And she would not get rid of _hers_. Her mother did not know how to knit but she, Valentine, had made a cap once and she thought she could get a hold of some wool and make a blanket, too. That was enough, to start with. Other women had their babies, so why should _she_ not have hers, too? After all, she had told him that it would not be private, that she would _not_ be his unless, unless…And she could not, _would_ not hide a baby!

‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I never had a mistress—never asked a woman to—before…before…’

She began to cry, and he was upon her again. His mouth was soft against her face, her mouth, her eyes. She tilted towards him with her own mouth, reached up with her hands to cup his face and then they were kissing again, and he was speaking between the kisses, calmly, and she thought that she might believe him, if only…She might, if he would dare risk it!

‘A decent Tommie doesn’t do it,’ he was saying. ‘There are ways…If he’s a decent fellow—ways to not leave his girl in trouble.’ He was kissing her neck, and she wondered if this was drunkenness she was feeling, the half pint that she had had earlier. She _must_ be drunk, otherwise there was no accounting for this—or was there?

She was aware that, ever since he had turned up at the War Office that afternoon, since his brother had given them their blessing, she had felt something shimmering between them; but no, it had begun earlier, that terrible pull that she felt towards him, that awareness of his body whenever he was near. He did not even need to speak to her or shake her hand when he came to take tea with her mother. She need only know that he was there in their dog kennel of a house, and her blood would begin to hum, like it was now, except now she felt that she _was_ going to burst, this time. And she thought he might guess at what she was feeling. If only he would show her, if only he would take the lead!

But Tietjens hesitated. He might not notice, she thought, how she was panting, how she had spread her limbs out, just so, waiting…And if he would refuse her, now! She could not bear it. When she _would_ have her war baby, after all. If he would only give her that much…But he had said that he would be honorable! But he was leaving; and she had told him: **_I will be ready for anything you ask._ (5)**

‘Christopher,’ she sobbed. ‘I am ready.’

‘There are ways,’ he whispered. And later she would try to remember just how it was that he ran his hand over her knee, and up past her garters—holes in the stockings be damned!—and how it was that between the two of them they had managed to pull her drawers down enough that he could get his hand in there. She _had_ to remember this, because he was her man, and this was all that she might have, of their love story. This night, and the night they had fallen in love—must they do everything in shadows? But no—she _would_ have him, even if Edith had not; she _would_ be rash, messy. She reached for the braces of his trousers.

He pushed her hand away. ‘It was from the very beginning…with every word,’ (p. 346) he said. ‘But this— _this_ —Valentine!’ But he did not protest when she reached again for the braces, and she would remember how he had trembled and choked when her small hands brushed against his hip. That was all.

But if they were to do this, do it properly, they would _not_ be private! Next time, then….And why shouldn’t she have this one time, if she could not have the baby?

He had already removed his waistcoat; he was in his shirtsleeves and trousers, and she could feel the hairs on his arm prickling against her thigh. The tide was come over her again, and she could not move, did not wish to stir from the couch where his hands were between her legs.

He moved to put a hand over her mouth. She was crying, her mother might hear. But no, it was past one. A clock had chimed once when they were coming through the gate, and at seven he would take the lorry to Holborn and catch the transport. If someone should come in! But what of it?....Surely Mrs Wannop would not, he thought….More importantly, _what_ was he to do? Was he to have his girl, or not? There was the risk, the dreadful risk, the risk of the baby and the risk of his death. And to entrust her to Mark—it would be too much, and yet not enough, though Christopher knew that his brother would undertake to give his girl an annuity more generous than honorable.

He put his mouth over hers to quiet her. She gasped for air, turned her face away from his. He kissed her neck.

His other hand had found—had found her center. She pulsed and pushed against his fingers, then thought to warn him….it was _very_ untidy….but he made a grunt as if to say that he didn’t mind and his other hand rested on her breast and she opened herself further and shuddered against him once, twice, crying out as the pulses grew larger and larger, like the ripples of a pebble on a pond, leaving her center and spreading out through her body, away—away—away to France—away….

Still he murmured gentle things as his hands slid off of her. She felt lost already: _triste_ _est omne animal_ _post coitus_ – woman included! And they had not even risked it! He had not removed his trousers. They were not the type to…but they _had,_ hadn’t they? _She_ had, at least. But Tietjens? What of him? What of his sadness? All animals…but not him, then. Valentine searched for his face in the dark, still throbbing with one last wave of desire.

He denied her that, as he did the baby. He kissed her softly, chastely—why so? Then there was a noise above them, her mother stirring in the night, and he quickly he swung his braces back over his shoulder and sat upright. Her hands slid off his chest as he turned away from her, looking for his coatjacket.

She had never….that is, never until tonight! And now he was to go without letting her give him anything in return! _Himself he could not save._ The very soul of honour….but she thought that honour did not count for very much, nowadays. She would rather the wool booties, after all.

‘There is something—you!’ he said in a low voice. He thought of Macmaster urging him to tell her before he went out; the other man had taken a keen interest in Tietjens’ having a girl, as if the fact might excuse his own behaviour with Edith Ethel while she was still Mrs Duchemin.

‘I know,’ Valentine said. ‘You must go now.’

‘I must. But if anything should—’ His head was in his hands. She felt rather than saw them shake; she was bent over him now, crying again. Silly, babbling, bubbling girl!

‘Don’t say it!’ she gulped. ‘ _Don’t—_ I implore you.’ She embraced him for several minutes.

He rose and she walked him out. The door of the parlour squeaked on its hinges and they both twitched, startled and afraid.

At the gate he crouched down to kiss her, his hulking form a dark shadow against the street lamp.

_______________________

**After a long time he said:**

**“Well…”**

**She moved back. She said:**

**“I won’t watch you out of sight…. It is unlucky to watch anyone out of sight…. But I will never… I will never cut what you said then out of my memory…” She was gone; the door shut. He had wondered what she would never cut out of her memory. That he had asked her that afternoon to be his mistress?...**

**He had caught, outside the gates of his old office, a transport lorry that had given him a lift to Holborn….(6)**

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> (1) p. 349  
> (2) p. 346  
> (3) p. 343  
> (4) p. 322  
> (5) p. 343  
> (6) pp. 349-350


End file.
